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“Jesus, these guys are seriously late.” George sucked down tepid water, draining the bottle. “Bet they ain’t coming at all.”
“Slow down, Tex—drink too fast and you’ll give yourself cramps.” Nathaniel heard the growl of a truck coming up the street, and his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, spotting a rumbling cargo truck turning the corner, heading toward the back of the building. Emblazoned on its side was the name of the auto parts store they were watching.
“Everyone look sharp. I think they just arrived. Hernando, get your head out of that Dumpster and see if you can verify that license plate.”
“With pleasure—you had to pick the day they threw out their old meat, didn’t you? My wife’s gonna make me sleep in the den again. Okay, Lima Juliet Kilo five-one-niner. That matches the truck we’re expecting.”
Nate sat up and pushed his hat back. “All right, everyone. Get ready—the cargo has arrived. We’ll give ’em a few minutes, then move in after the truck has docked and they’ve started unloading. Carter, Juan, you guys take the front. Hernando, move to the back corner and keep an eye on the truck. Ryan and I will circle around the block and take them from behind.” He clicked off his radio. “All right, George, get up here.” He leaned toward the door as the stocky man clambered into the front seat.
“Damn two-door,” he muttered.
“Hey, do not insult the vehicle. This little son of a bitch has gotten me through hell and back.” Firing the engine, Nate pulled a U-turn and headed past the grocery store, then turned right down the side street.
Hernando’s voice came over the radio. “Nate, I’m in position. The truck just parked in the loading dock, and it looks like our boys are in quite a hurry for some reason.”
“We’ll be there in thirty. Front team, you ready?”
“Give the word, and we’ll be inside in ten seconds.”
“Copy that. No one moves until my signal.” Nate turned right again, aiming the Bronco down the alley toward the auto parts store and pulling forward until he could just see the white snout of the truck’s hood. Drawing his .40-caliber HK P-2000 pistol, he chambered a round, waiting until George did the same. “We’ll pull in front of the truck as Carter and Juan sweep from the front, round everyone up and be done with it. You remembered your vest, right?”
George thumped his chest. “You mean the thing I’m swimmin’ in here? Hell, yeah.”
“Good man. Get ready.” Nate hit his radio. “Hernando, are they unloading yet?”
“Looks like it.”
“Okay, follow us as soon as we’re in front of the truck, and the three of us will go in together. Carter, Juan, on my signal.”
The three other agents confirmed the orders, and Nate slipped his SUV into gear, creeping down the alleyway until he judged he was close enough, then flooring the accelerator. The Bronco rocketed down the alley, and Nate squealed to a stop in front of the truck, trapping it between his vehicle and the building.
“Go, go, go!” he shouted. He yanked the key out of the ignition and slipped out the door, running around the hood, his cowboy boots slapping the pavement. George was already covering the driver, and Nate headed around the passenger side of the truck, seeing Hernando running down the other side of the vehicle.
The truck had backed up to a concrete loading dock that let people walk from the truck into the building without climbing up. Approaching it at a full run, Nate leaped up between the truck and the side of the building, squeezing through the narrow gap, pistol first. “U.S. Customs agents. Nobody move!”
The interior of the warehouse was large, easily several thousand square feet, and was filled with rows and rows of metal racks, stacked full of cardboard boxes and wooden crates of every size. Five shocked men, all standing in a line ready to relay the cargo into the warehouse, stared back at him. The second-to-last man had just tossed a box to the next guy, who had looked over in surprise, only to have the heavy container smack into his chest, sending him to the ground with a surprised grunt.
Nate heard the footsteps and shouts of his agents as they came through the front door, but knew it would be at least a minute before they secured the area and got to his location. He knew that was plenty of time for something bad to happen. He peered into the gloom, waiting for his eyes to adjust and not liking what he saw. There was too much cover where more men could be lurking, too many shadows to hide people.
Nate’s gaze flicked over to the other side of the loading bed, expecting his partner or Hernando to come barreling through at any second. He turned back to the five men, three of whom had put their hands up. Any day now, guys, he thought. “Everyone down on your knees and raise your hands—you know the drill.” He repeated the command in Spanish, trying to keep all of the men covered. The man farthest inside the warehouse edged a step away, then another.
“Buddy, you take another step you’ll be missing your knees something fierce,” he growled. Where the hell is he? “Agent Ryan, report!”
A shadow fell over the other side of the loading dock, and George Ryan forced his way inside. His face was red and he was panting with exertion. “Sorry, bastard driver…didn’t wanna…come outta the…truck. Hernando’s takin’ care of him.”
“All right, read ’em their rights,” Nate ordered. Keeping his pistol trained on them, he walked to the other agent and removed two pairs of handcuffs from his belt. “I’ll start trussin’ them.”
His pistol in one hand, George took the laminated Miranda rights card out of his pocket and held it up. “You have the right—”
The loud, unmistakable sound of a shotgun slide being pumped echoed throughout the warehouse. Ducking, Nate barely had time to yell “Get down!” before the dark interior lit up with a booming flash as the scattergun let loose. He twisted around to see George stumble and go down, a cloud of buckshot tearing at his body. The five men scattered in different directions as Nate squeezed off several shots in the direction of the ambush.
“Shots fired, shots fired! Hernando, get in here, Ryan’s down! Carter, Juan, watch for suspects coming out the front!” Nate crawled over to George and dragged him behind the nearest metal rack, his chest hitching as he struggled for breath. He checked George’s vitals, seeing blood stain his fingers. It looked as if the vest had stopped most of the pellets, but at least two had penetrated. “You’re gonna be all right, buddy,” he said.
The shotgun boomed again, and a shadow fell over Nate as Hernando hit the floor beside him. “I called for backup and the medics. Jesus, boss, what did you get us into this time?”
“Just the usual—hip-deep in shit.” Nate heard a flurry of shots from the front of the store, and knew the other two agents had bottled up anyone trying to leave—at least he hoped that’s what was happening. Another boom from the front made him wince. “Goddammit, these bastards are fuckin’ with the wrong guys. Take the right, I’ll take left, let’s see if we can pin ’em in a cross fire,” he said.
Hernando nodded and rolled over to a rack of crates, rising and ducking into the shadows of the warehouse. Nate checked George again, finding his breathing had steadied. “How you doin’?” he asked.
“All right—just prop me against the jamb, and I’ll cover the back.”
Nate nodded admiringly. He’s tougher than I thought. “You got it. Let’s give ’em something to think about first.” Sticking his pistol around the corner, he shot three times toward where the shotgun blasts had erupted. He propped George against the back wall. “Medics will be here soon enough. Keep your powder dry.”
George coughed, but held his pistol steady. “Go get ’em.”
Nate fired two more rounds, reloaded, then ran to the other side, hunching against the expected fire. Just as he ducked behind the parts rack, the shotgun roared again, and the corner of a wooden crate exploded into jagged splinters. But the shot had given him valuable information—he now knew the shooter’s location.
Nate looked up at the sturdy shelves around him and decided to take the high ground. Holstering his gun, he had just gotten a firm handhold when a shape barreled out of the shadows toward him. Caught in the act of lifting himself up, Nate had just turned his head when the man tackled him at the waist, shoving him off the rack and to the concrete floor. The breath rushed out of Nate’s lungs, and pain stabbed through his elbow and knee. Pinned by his attacker, he couldn’t snake an arm around to his pistol, and was forced to throw up his hurt arm to keep the man’s clutching hand away his throat. Squirming, he ended up flat on his back, with the attacker sitting on top of him and throwing wild punches at his face. Dodging a swing that grazed his cheek, Nate lashed out with his fist, clouting the man’s head so hard he rocked back. The agent hooked his arm underneath the smuggler’s leg and heaved him over. Rolling, Nate threw a knee into the man’s chest, doubling him up, then scrambled to his feet and slammed his opponent in the head twice with his boot heel. The man struggled to his hands and knees, but Nate put him right back down with another hard shot to the back of the neck. He checked his pistol, then keyed his mike.
“Hernando, come in. Hernando, do you read?”
Nate didn’t even hear the hiss of static, but instead caught a rattle of something broken inside the radio. He dropped the useless device and hoisted himself up the shelves while ignoring his throbbing elbow and knee. Scrambling up and over the final row of boxes, Nate began creeping in the direction he had last heard the shotgunner fire from. It had now gone ominously silent.
Geez, I could really use that radio now, he thought, since he had no idea who was dead or alive, who was shot or not. He couldn’t even hear any sirens in the distance, and wasn’t sure when any backup would arrive. For all he knew, he was on his own.
He heard the noise as the shotgun slide racked again and another boom thundered through the cavernous warehouse. Nate homed in on the sound, climbing over the uneven terrain of boxes and crates, his pistol always pointing toward the direction of the shotgun fire. At one point he had to leap from one rack to another. He barely made it, dangling from one arm for a few tense moments. When he was safely positioned again, he took a second not only to listen, but also to try to calm his jackhammering heart.
Should be close now, Nate thought, peering over the edge to see if he could spot the gunner in the gloom of the warehouse. In the sudden quiet, the faint scream of sirens reached his ears, and he knew if they didn’t take this guy soon, he would bolt. He reached the end of a row and looked over again. Spotting a crouched form, he raised his pistol and aimed, but pointed it toward the ceiling when he saw Hernando moving cautiously through the racks. Nate instinctively reached for his radio again, silently cursing when he remembered it was on the floor. He considered trying to get the other agent’s attention, but didn’t want to risk giving away his position.
Standing slowly, he looked in all directions, wondering where in the hell their common enemy was. The slam of a door at the front of the warehouse drew his attention, along with Hernando’s, and another loud blast echoed as the jumpy shotgunner loosed more buckshot in that direction. This time it sounded as if the guy was directly below him, and Nate stepped to the far side of the rack in time to see the man taking cover behind a pile of boxes, his scattergun aimed at the end of the row. Nate glanced over to see Hernando appearing from around the end, squinting to see the smuggler in the gloom.
Nate extended his gun and yelled, “Drop it!” The shotgunner blinked in surprise and raised the scattergun. Nate squeezed the HK’s trigger twice and two 165-grain hollow-points smashed into the man’s chest, dropping him where he crouched.
Hernando ran up and kicked the shotgun away as the sirens finally echoed off the buildings as cars pulled up. “I got mine on the other side. You?” he asked.
“Number three’s sleeping off a kiss from my boot up front. The other two probably lit out for the front.” Nate clambered down the rack, sliding the last several feet. “Cuff him, and I’ll clear the store.” Running from rack to rack, he reached the set of double doors, which now sported several bullet holes and a spiderwebbed Plexiglas window. “Carter? Juan?” he called out.
“In here!” Carter replied.
Still keeping his pistol ready, Nate eased the door open, not wanting to walk into another ambush. The storefront looked like a war zone, with damaged cardboard display racks lying on their sides amid fluttering car-parts brochures. A black puddle of oil slowly grew from rows of blasted, leaking containers. As Nate walked forward, he heard Carter’s voice counting steadily.
“One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and-five.” Pause. “One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and-five—come on, dammit, breathe! Where’s the damn medics?”
Nate ran through the racks to the far side of the store, where the damage was even worse. The counter had taken so many bullets and shotgun blasts that it had broken in two, the pieces leaning against each other. An overhead fan lazily stirred the smoky air. Nate spotted two bodies right away, one behind the counter, the other near the door, brought down while trying to make a break for it.
Seeing his two remaining men on the floor in the center of the room, however, chilled Nate’s heart. Agent Juan Menendez lay unmoving, his side a soaked mass of blood. Next to him, his partner leaned over and performed chest compressions, stopping after every fifth pump to breathe into his partner’s mouth.
“We need those medics in here now!” Nate shouted over his shoulder as he ran to them. “Stay on mouth-to-mouth—I’ve got this.” Locking his arms, he began chest compressions, leaning in to drive the wounded man’s breastbone down and manually keep his heart pumping blood. “Come on, Juan, you still haven’t given me that damn barbeque recipe yet, and I ain’t lettin’ you go until I get it!”
The two agents continued CPR until the medics arrived a few minutes later, but Nate knew it was a lost cause. Juan had shown no response to their ministrations, and even electric shocks directly to the heart had done nothing. In the end, the agent was taken out in an ambulance with the lights flashing on its way to the hospital, but Nate was pretty sure they would call it on the way. He put his hand on Carter’s shoulder. “Sorry, man.”
“There’s still a chance—they might save him at the hospital….”
“Yeah, he might pull through—Juan’s a tough old bastard.” What else could he say? he wondered. “Come on, we better get back and clean up the rest of this mess.”
He helped the shaken Carter through the ruined shop and into the back room, where apparent chaos was unfolding. Uniformed El Paso police officers were everywhere, cordoning off the area, taking pictures and trying to keep some semblance of order. “Aw, Jesus Christ.” Nate shook his head as he surveyed the scene.
“Nate, over here!” George, who was being pulled out on a guerney, was holding on to the side of the garage door while the medic tried to dislodge his hands. “I didn’t want to leave until you’d secured the scene,” the big man said.
“Okay, I’m here now, so settle down, George, and let them take you to get checked out.” He made sure his partner was on the way to the hospital, then turned to the rest of the men and women on the scene, holding up his badge. “Everyone listen up! I’m Customs and Border Protection Agent Nathaniel Spencer, and this is my crime scene, so would all of you please clear out so our guys can process it, thank you very much!”
The police officers filed out, grumbling at missing out on the bust. Nate and Hernando made sure all of them were gone, then turned to the half-loaded truck.
“Well, let’s see what we got,” Nate said. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, he grabbed a crowbar and pried open a large crate. The stenciled lettering on the side claimed it contained a pair of automatic transmissions. Clearing out the packing material, he saw two shiny metal casings, as promised. He pushed one to see how heavy it was. The round metal housing shifted easily under his hand. “Looks like they’re importing something more than metal here.” He scrounged up a wrench from the warehouse and unscrewed bolts until the housing came apart. Instead of the gears, clutches and bands that would have been inside a normal transmission, this one was filled with dozens of bags of white powder. “Hey, Carter, Hernando, take a look at this.” The other two agents walked over. “Must be five kilos in here easy, and more in the rest, I’ll bet. We got ’em dead to rights.”
Hernando smiled and nodded, while Carter just looked numb. They all glanced up as more footsteps approached, and several other agents came in, including the crime-lab group.
One of the agents, a tall, bony redhead, took off his mirrored sunglasses and surveyed the scene. “Heard something about a war breaking out over here, and look who we find—Shootin’ Spencer.”
“Aw, Billy, don’t be so sad—after all, you did arrive just in time to help clean up,” Nate said. He held up a plastic bag full of white powder. “And you certainly can’t argue with these results.”
Billy Travis—the department’s hotshot until Nate had arrived eighteen months earlier—snorted. “Maybe, but I could have done the same job without sending two agents to the hospital.”
Carter started at his words, but it was Nate who carefully set the bag down and strode toward Travis. He was intercepted by Hernando, who put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, big guy, it’s not worth it.”
Nate shrugged him off and walked up to the other agent, pinning him with his gaze. “You best take that cork out of your ass and shove it in your mouth, ’cause if you ever accuse me of being sloppy on a bust again, we’re gonna have more than just words about it.”
Travis looked around for support, but Hernando and Carter studiously ignored him, and the rest of the team busied themselves with processing the scene. “You’re a goddamn hot dog, and everyone knows it, Spencer. It’s only a matter of time before you really fuck up, and I hope to hell I’m there to see it,” he snarled.
“Well, son, you do what you gotta do, and in the meantime, I’ll be busy doing my job. By the way, if you want to see what twenty kilos of coke looks like—you know, to refresh your memory—they’re in the truck there.” Turning away from the other agent, Nate headed outside to cool off. He pulled a battered cheroot from his pocket and lit up, jetting the pungent smoke out of his nostrils.
Standing by the front of the truck, he climbed on the external gas tank and peered into the cab. He shoved aside a layer of fast-food bags and empty soda bottles, looking for anything interesting. He found a clipboard with the bills of lading on them, no doubt forged, and which should match the numbers on the boxes in the back. He bagged it and was about to jump down and give the board to a tech when a soft beeping sound caught his attention.
Leaning back in, he cocked his ear, trying to pinpoint where the noise was coming from. Running a hand between the seat cushions, he was rewarded with the feel of smooth plastic and withdrew a small handheld device.
“Looks like our smuggler got himself an e-mail,” he muttered. Nate bagged that, as well, and walked back inside the warehouse, finding one of the techs he trusted, a short, stocky brunette named Claire.
“Do me a favor. Give me all the e-mails on this when you have a chance—and don’t let the walking asshole over there get wind of it, okay?” he said with a wink.
Claire nodded, and Nate turned to help with the rest of the crime scene, throwing Travis a cheery false smile as he did so. He had a feeling that the e-mails would take him further up the smuggling chain—and while he loved to bust the bad guys, it would be even sweeter to throw that in Travis’s face, as well.
2
Kate Cochran, the director of Room 59, stared straight into the muzzle of a sleek SIG Sauer P-229 9 mm pistol.
“Just stay cool and do as they say. He’s bluffing, trying to rattle you.” She sucked in a breath and waited, unable to do anything else. “Keep it together and stick to the plan.”
The man she was speaking to—who couldn’t hear her at all—was in a small building in the town of Panamik, on the Nubra River in Kashmir. He kept his hands raised as he said in perfect Pakistani, “I am unarmed—I am just a college professor. I was hoping this kind of treatment wouldn’t be necessary.”
The man holding the pistol nodded to two other men, who grabbed the speaker’s arms and spun him around, smacking his hands against the wall of the abandoned building where they all stood. One of the men patted him down for weapons. The other reached for the briefcase at his feet. He then shoved the professor away, whirling him to face the pistol-wielding man, who shoved his weapon right into the Pakistani’s face.
“That is not for you! Not until you show me what I have come for!” the professor said.
Half a world away in New York City, Kate held her breath, hoping that her floater hadn’t just bluffed himself into a bullet in his brain. Although she could see and hear everything, she couldn’t lift a finger to help him. There were two other men who were supposed to be working with him, but they also had pistols pointed at their heads and couldn’t come to his aid without getting shot. The entire deal now hinged on a stare-down with a ruthless Russian arms merchant who had already proved he would kill if he suspected even the slightest hint of a double cross.
For a long moment, no one moved. The Russian shifted his grip on the pistol, his eyes emotionless. “I should kill you where you stand for such an insult. But you also show courage to stand up to an armed man with nothing but your conviction to protect you. I can respect that.” He lowered his pistol, and both the Pakistani and Kate breathed a sigh of relief.
Room 59 had spent six months subverting elements of the Pakistani terrorist group Lashkar-e-Omar, which had coalesced out of at least three smaller terrorist groups in 2002. Since then, the organization had been linked to several bombings, including a hotel and the U.S. Embassy in Kashmir. The terrorists also had ties to the men involved in the abduction and murder of the journalist Daniel Pearl. Now they were planning to up the stakes of their game considerably.
The group, which was battling for control of the disputed region of Kashmir with several other factions, had been negotiating to acquire a nuclear weapon on the black market for several months. Room 59 had placed an operative close to a nuclear scientist, Professor Osman Shirazi, a zealous patriot who wanted Kashmir brought into Pakistan’s fold by any means necessary. Through a carefully arranged series of meetings, the Room 59 operative had finally learned the master plan to acquire a nuclear weapon and set it off while planting evidence that the Indian government was responsible for the attack. The goal was to begin serious talks with pro-Pakistani elements in the Kashmiri government to unite against India.
Professor Shirazi thought he was purchasing the weapon on behalf of Lashkar-e-Omar, but in reality he was being played by the operative in hopes he would lead him to senior members of the group. The terrorist group’s ultimate plan was to absorb Kashmir into Pakistan, but if Kate and her people had their way, the weapon they planned on using to set that in motion was about to disappear.
The ultrasecret nongovernmental agency Room 59, charged with keeping peace throughout the world through just about whatever means possible, always had an interest in removing nuclear bombs from the world stage. The easiest way to do this was to simply purchase them from whoever was selling, and dispose of the weapons at a top-secret facility designed for just such a purpose. If they could strike blows against both the terrorist groups looking to buy or sell these weapons, as well as the arms dealers who trafficked in them, then it was three birds down with one well-placed stone. However, that assumed that the floater didn’t get himself killed, as Shirazi almost had a few seconds ago. But as on several previous occasions in the past months, the uptight professor’s strange knack for wriggling out of mortal danger had saved him again.
“It is good that you see reason. Tell your associates that there is no need to hold my friends hostage. I am here for a simple business transaction, that is all,” the professor said.
“This man still might talk himself into a shallow grave before this is over,” Kate said. Her gold-green eyes glanced at another window, where a lean, fox-faced Chinese man was also observing. Pai Kun, Room 59’s director of Asian operations, had been instrumental in helping insert their operative, who was waiting to take delivery of the nuclear device as soon as the transaction was completed. It was the epitome of a Room 59 operation—using local resources who didn’t even know they were being used to complete the mission, which had been going smoothly, except for the momentary unpleasantness just then.
“Shirazi’s psych profile indicated he would react to a threat by not backing down, but he also wouldn’t turn completely belligerent, either. If he had caved, they would walk all over him. Hard as it is to believe, he’s doing exactly what we need right now,” she said to Kun. Although when this is over, someone should talk to him about his negotiating tactics, Kate thought, sweeping a lock of platinum-blond hair out of her eyes. She watched the situation through Shirazi’s glasses, which had been replaced by their operative and contained a miniature camera that recorded everyone the professor looked at. The signal was transmitted back to Room 59 analysts so they could match the faces with known terrorists and arms dealers.
Kate was particularly interested in this seller. Alexei Kryukov, a former Spetsnaz commander, had found the black market much more lucrative than working for his government. He’d made tens of millions buying and selling weapons. He had already fought his way out of one bust set up by Room 59, leaving an operative in the hospital, and had relocated to Southeast Asia, playing the local sides against each other and profiting every time.
The heavy-set Russian’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded at his men, who lowered their pistols and stepped away from Shirazi’s companions. Everyone in the room visibly relaxed, and the professor picked up the briefcase and walked over to the Russian.
“So, where is it?”
Kryukov shook his head. “You will need to open that case and show me the diamonds first. Your purchase is nearby—that I guarantee.”
“All right, Shirazi, give them a taste,” Kate said. Her breath caught as she steeled herself for another outburst from the Pakistani, but he nodded and gave the case to one of his associates to hold while he spun the combinations and opened the catches, revealing a half-dozen velvet bags, all nestled in cutouts in a block of foam padding. Selecting the one on the lower right, he opened it and poured out a dozen glittering, clear gems in his palm, holding it out to the arms dealer.
“Examine any one you wish,” he said.
Kryukov had already taken a jeweler’s loupe from his pocket and placed it over his right eye. He plucked a small stone out of the other man’s hand and held it up to the broken window, letting the sun’s weak rays shine through the diamond. He turned it one way, then another, examining every facet. He did this with two more, then lowered his hand and nodded. “They are acceptable. Come with me into the next room so you can verify your merchandise.”
Kate and Pai Kun watched as Shirazi trailed the Russian into a smaller, windowless room containing a wooden table and a metal-framed, aluminum-sided case about fifteen inches long, a foot wide and six inches high. There was no indication that it held something that could destroy a medium-size city or lay waste to twenty blocks of a major metropolitan area.
“The case is lead lined, so we are perfectly safe. I have left it unlocked so that you may examine it to be sure it is what we had agreed upon,” Kryukov said.
The nuclear scientist flipped open the catches, his eyes never leaving Kryukov’s face as he opened the top. “Part of the arsenal created in the 1980s, yes?” he asked. After the other man’s nod, he continued, “The power source is still viable?” He took a small Geiger counter from his inside jacket pocket and ran it over the top of the case, apparently satisfied with the reading.
Kate stared at the open case in detached fascination. The interior was framed in about two inches of metal all around, and contained a tube about two inches in diameter that rested diagonally in the case. She knew exactly how it operated—the discus-shaped plutonium core was surrounded by a cylinder of high explosive, that, when detonated, would create an implosion that compressed the plutonium on all sides, making it a perfect sphere, and causing it to reach supercritical mass, with a mushroom cloud to follow.
“The battery system has been maintained on an annual basis, the explosives have been verified, as well, and the transmitter that would normally alert my former employers of low or failing power has been disabled—no sense in having them track this down before you are ready to use it, da?”
“And the yield?” Shirazi asked.
“Ten kilotons, suitable for any purpose from urban terrorism to the destruction of infrastructure or other targets of opportunity. But of course, that is none of my business,” the Russian replied.
